Once in a Blue Moon
by sandysalsa
Summary: Modern AU, prompt fill for SanSan Fest 2015–Full prompt/summary inside. Sandor is a bouncer at a local strip club, but one night he finds himself in a situation where he is forced to participate as a dancer. Sansa is there for her bachelorette party, and finds that the experience does no favors for her cold feet...
1. Chapter 1

**FULL PROMPT, brought to you by the lovely LadyCyprus & SquidProQuo-Ink, written for the SansaxSandor LJ Community's **_**SanSan Fest 2015**_ **:** Sandor is a bouncer at a club that has a male strip show booked (think Magic Mike). Through a series of terrible events, Sandor loses a bet that requires the loser to strip. Sansa is there for her bachelorette party but she's having cold feet (think Joffrey). Sandor is grumpy and uncomfortable because he thinks he's hideous and he can't dance, but LB gets a look at the goods and is all "Joffrey who?" Squid and I agree that green room sex is essential (LB is too classy for the bathroom). Sandor gets all angsty about it being a one night stand, but Sansa realizes she can't marry Joff because he's Joff and he also has a very small penis. She can't figure out how to get out of her engagement and ends up leaving Joff in a hideously embarrassing and very public way. And Sandor and Sansa live happily ever after with puppies and babies.

 **OKAY. Some notes/disclaimers before we get started here. Consider this my one big Author's Note for the whole thing, any notes after this point will be minimal, if not in response to reviews!:**

1: I've never actually seen Magic Mike, so don't expect something that resembles that movie's plot!  
2: First. Smut. Ever. D: BLUSHING MADLY.  
3: This is a Modern AU (something else totally out of my element, but something I had an incredible amount of fun with!), so I've written Sandor as a far less angsty person in this fic. Not only because the fic itself calls for something more fun, but because Modern!Sandor doesn't kill people for a living, and I'm sure he had better access to therapy. Also, the modern world is a *bit* nicer to the physically deformed than the middle-aged world. So with all that in mind, this is the (super Scottish) Sandor I came up with. Same with my Modern!Sansa translation, of course. Enjoy!  
4: Chapter lengths are not consistent. At all. Whoops!  
5: There's a YT Playlist of songs as an optional accompaniment, Haha! See the Sandy-Salsa Tumblr for a link. The first 3 I picked out (and the first is the song Sandor dances to *waggles eyebrows*), and the SanSan people of Tumblr helped me with the rest pretty much! I will still take suggestions to add in the future too! :3  
6: This fic IS completed, and will be uploaded 2 chapters at a time, once a week. First two chapters are extremely short (see point 4). Don't worry, more to come!  
7: Hope everyone enjoys! What a fun departure from my regular story! :D Also thanks/credit to LadyCyprus for FINALLY helping me to name this fic! LOL! **Happy New Year, everyone!**

* * *

 **SANDOR 1: FEAR**

"D'you think I was born yesterday, mate?" Sandor growled, arms crossed over his chest as he towered over the kid. "Piss off out of here, and come back when your balls have dropped."

He hadn't even bothered to take the proffered ID card; the pathetic growth he called a beard coupled with the lanky, pimply burdens of adolescence was enough to tip anyone off. Sandor knew all the telltale signs of underage intruders, hoping to get a glimpse of what lie beyond the walls he guarded. _I bet his palms are as sweaty as his face, the stupid cunt._ Not a week went by that Sandor didn't have to chase off others of his ilk; this was the only club with full nudity, after all, and the world was never wanting for horny teenagers.

"But you haven't even—"

"Looked at your fake ID?" Sandor cut over him, causing the boy to recoil. "Go ahead then, hand it over." Sandor held out an expectant hand. As the boy made to hand it over, he leaned in close, narrowed his eyes. "You won't like it if I spy forgery; and trust me, I _will_ spy it. Is all that trouble worth it, just to see some tits?"

The boy's eyes were wide and white with fear as he hastily retracted the ID. Sandor might have laughed, if he weren't making it a point to be intimidating. Truth be told, scaring others came naturally to him, which is what made his job so easy. He was a tall man—nearly seven feet—and muscled like a bull. But that wasn't what frightened people most; he was a bouncer, after all, and it was no surprise that a man his size would be manning the doors. No, what truly frightened people was the twisted, hideous ruin that was his face. It won him no favor from the opposite sex, but it served him well with little shits like the one before him, and belligerent guests as well. Even the dancers were weary about him, although they happily patronized him whenever they needed walking to their cars at night.

The lad tucked tail and ran off. "That's what I thought," Sandor said with a satisfied smile, returning to his full height. He put a hand to his mouth and called after him. "The internet is free, you know!"

 **SANSA 1: EXCITEMENT**

"I can't wait for tomorrow!" Mya said excitedly on the other line. "I have so much in store for you. You'll look back on this night one day and consider it to be better than your wedding day."

Sansa laughed. "I knew I was right to choose you as my maid of honor."

There was a brief silence. "Arya's not still upset about that, is she?"

"No," she lied. "Arya's my sister, and she's special to me too, just...a different kind of special. She understands that."

The choice not to give her sister the high honor at her wedding had, in reality, been a huge source of drama in the family of late. Every bit of logic was always countered with, 'but she's your sister!'

Arya didn't even want to wear a dress to the wedding. _But she's your sister!_

Arya had no interest in helping pick out floral arrangements and cake toppers, or helping with anything else, for that matter. _But she's your sister!_

Arya's idea of a bachelorette party was pizza and pajamas. _But she's your sister!_

Arya didn't even _like_ her fiancé. _But she's your sister!_

Sansa was sick to death of it, and was ready for the whole wedding to be behind her. The entire process had been _exhausting_ , and Arya had been an utter killjoy at every turn. _She should consider herself lucky to be a bridesmaid at all_. What was supposed to be a happy occasion had been nothing but a nuisance from the very beginning, and everyone seemed to have a better idea of what she wanted out of her own wedding than she did. Mya was her best friend, and had been one of the only sources of sanity through it all, so it was Mya who Sansa entrusted with the role of Maid of Honor. _Why can't everyone just be happy for me, rather than making it about themselves?_

"Nothing could be worse than your mother-in-law," Mya was giggling on the other line.

Sansa gave a light laugh. "We _must_ go for ice cream soon, I agree."

It was their code phrase for whenever someone else was in the room. "Give Joff my love," Mya said sarcastically, making a kissing sound. "And give his mother a laxative, she's too full of shit."

"You're awful," Sansa giggled, turning away from his prying eyes. "I do have to run, though. What time should I expect you tomorrow?"

"Just be ready," Mya said mysteriously. "And wear something sexy, but you don't mind having ruined."

"What?"

"Ta now!" She hung up. Sansa bit her lip, unable to hold back the grin that crept up on her. Whatever her friend had in store, she had no doubt that it would be memorable. _As it should be. Not pizza and pajamas._


	2. Chapter 2

**SANDOR 2: SMOKE**

Sandor stole off to the back of the building to have a smoke. The chill autumn air was bracing, and alive with the muffled thumping of dance music that emanated from within. The only light came from a lone bulb that adorned the back door, riddled with moths bouncing clumsily around it. Sandor lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, silent as he watched the trail of smoke slink away into the heavens.

He didn't lead a life worthy of writing home about; but it was eventful enough, and the pay was good. He sometimes wondered if he'd ever have amounted to anything, had fire not claimed it all. His brother had certainly done their parents proud, as one of the most prolific boxers to have ever stepped into the ring. Even that was something he had ruined for him; it had been _his_ dream to fight, and so Gregor made it his. Sandor had left town the day he came of age, refusing to exist in his brother's shadow a moment longer. _And so I guard the gates to sin instead,_ he thought with a bitter laugh.

The thumping music suddenly grew louder as the door swung open, and one of the bartenders stepped outside. The night returned to its calm quiet as the door slammed shut behind, and they walked over, promptly lighting up a cigarette of their own.

"Ah, there you are, guard dog," said the man amiably. "I figured you were off tonight; didn't see you up front."

Sandor exhaled heavily through the nose, a plume of smoke billowing out in front. "No such luck."

Sandor didn't speak to his coworkers often, much less call any of them friends. However, he did find himself sharing a smoke with this particular coworker more often than not, and if he had taken a liking to any of them, it was Jaime Lannister. Not that he would ever tell him as much; Jaime was born with a silver spoon up his arse, and it wasn't for need of a paycheck that he worked here. Tending the bar was nothing more than a way to piss off his rich father, although the front-row seat to all _The Blue Moon_ had to offer was surely a perk as well.

Jaime was as arrogant and prideful as he was handsome. _All his eggs are double-yolked, that one._ Sandor hated people like him, but nonetheless, he couldn't help but appreciate his apathy for affluence, and his quick wit made for many interesting back-and-forths over their mutual addiction to death. Most of all, Jaime never looked at Sandor with disgust or pity, and for that he had his respect.

"Tonight's been a right treat," Jaime said derisively, taking a place next to him against the wall. Sandor raised an inquiring eyebrow as the blonde blew a pillar of smoke into the air. "Boss is on a warpath," he explained. "Mike up and called off, so we're short a dancer for tomorrow."

"Mike's a cunt," Sandor said at once. Twice monthly, _The Blue Moon_ hosted a ladies' night, featuring male dancers instead of female. Sandor _loathed_ ladies' night. The bachelorette parties were bad enough; herds of women covered in cocks, all blushing and gawking at the stage as though they've never seen one before. At least bachelor parties had a little more dignity, what little a foray to a strip club could have in the first place.

And then there was _Mike,_ a regular performer who went by the ridiculous stage name _Thunder Down Under_. The Aussie had a bigger head than Jaime, yet had none of the justification for it. He always paid his house fee, however, and so everyone had to suffer him.

"Be that as it may," Jaime shrugged. "That leaves only two dancers for tomorrow, since Joel took off too. Three was doable; but two? And short notice?"

"Aye," Sandor agreed. "I do suppose that calls for a warpath. So does that mean tomorrow is canceled and we can all stay home?"

They shared in a laugh at that. "The show must go on, as they say," Jaime shook his head. "But Boss is getting desperate; you know, he asked _me_ if I'd be interested in dancing. Before too long, I'm sure he'll be asking you too."

"He's smarter than that, surely," Sandor snorted. _I'm here to scare others off, not turn them on._ Boss was an explosive, unpredictable man, however. Fat and hairy and always drunk, he was the opposite of the class his club was known for. His true name was Robert, but everyone only called him 'Boss'; it had started out as a joke, but that much had flown over his head. He overheard the name one day and began insisting that everyone start calling him that, and everyone was happy to oblige.

Jaime was giving him a once-over, his eyes bright with sudden mischief. "You know...you would already have the perfect stage name," He said, spreading his hands out in front as though they were standing in front of a marquee. " _The Burning Sensation."_

Sandor choked mid-drag and was sent into a coughing fit; Jaime threw his head back and roared with laughter. Jaime was perhaps the only one who could make jokes about his face and still have his intact afterwards. Not to be mocked so easily, however, Sandor put out a hand and shoved the man sideways, sending him reeling a few paces; it quelled his mirth not at all.

"That sounds more like an infection than a proper stage name," Sandor rasped once he had his breath again. "Besides, I think _you'd_ be better suited to perform—" He mimicked Jaime's gesture from before, cigarette between his teeth as he said with feigned reverence, " _Goldicocks."_

Now they both were laughing. "Oh, very original," Jaime said sardonically, tossing his cigarette to the ground and grinding it underfoot.

Sensing that their break had come to an end, Sandor put the butt of his cigarette between thumb and forefinger and flicked it away.

As they made for the door, Jaime clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Have a drink with me, yeah?"

Sandor looked at him as suspiciously as if he'd just asked him to help him hide a body. _We chat outside, ignore each other inside._ That was their unspoken agreement.

"I've got to get back to the door," he said.

"Larry's got the door," Jaime replied. "C'mon, mate, it's slow tonight. I could use the company."

"We're not mates," Sandor corrected him gruffly. "But if it comes off your tab, sure. My shift is up in an hour anyhow."

* * *

 **SANSA 2: FLAWS**

"Who was that?" Joffrey asked from behind, in the tones of a demand. Sansa turned to face him as she pocketed her phone, putting on a more innocent expression.

"Mya," she replied. "She's got big plans for the party tomorrow, but she won't tell me what."

"Did you tell her the rule?" He looked at her pointedly. Sansa sighed.

"I told her weeks ago, when you told me to tell her," she replied with exasperation. _No strippers._ Joff was a highly possessive sort, although Sansa had never given him cause to be. _He's the only man I've slept with, for goodness sakes._ He claimed that it would be bad for their reputation if anyone were to spy her in such company, but she knew it had nothing to do with that. Arrogance ran in his family, but from where she stood, no one was more insecure than her fiancé.

She banished that thought. _Everyone told me this would happen_ , she scolded herself. _With the wedding so near, I'm getting cold feet, and his flaws are more pronounced._

The big day was a week away. Everything was planned and paid for, all the RSVPs were in, all the fittings were done, and now all there was to do was wait. And doubt. And _wait_. And _doubt_. It was worse, to Sansa's mind, all the waiting and doubting. She much preferred to keep her mind occupied and her hands busy, even with all their family members butting in and scrutinizing everything. There had been so much to do that she hadn't had time to consider the sheer _permanence_ of it all. But now that everything was ready…

Sansa had met Joffrey at a charity event two years ago, introduced to him by her parents. It was a highly formal event, and any elbow worth rubbing with had been there. With exception to Joffrey's father, who he never knew, all of their parents were big names in the political world, so the match had been a thrill for all parties. Sansa's mother and father were in national and local government respectively, and Joffrey's mother was a popular correspondent on TV. It had been a dream come true, really, that their children should serendipitously pair up as they had. _As they planned, more like,_ Sansa thought. She was no fool; but all the same, she had been just as happy as anyone. Joffrey was stunningly handsome, with rich blonde curls and bright green eyes. Sansa was slightly taller than he was, but that was not his fault; just shy of six feet, she was taller than most men she'd dated. His aspirations of stardom aligned perfectly with her own journalistic endeavors, and they had hit it off splendidly at first. He had been kind and romantic, even funny.

 _Why am I thinking in the past tense?_ Sansa chided herself. Not much had changed; Joffrey was still handsome, and was already well on his way to fame, although that much had always been a certainty, considering who his mother was. Only recently he had landed a spot on a popular daytime soap opera, and everyone agreed that it was exactly the foot in the door he needed. Sometimes he was still kind and romantic and funny...only far less often now. Sansa wasn't a child, however; she understood that the initial fire that ignited relationships rarely stayed so bright in the long-term. Her mother had told her as much.

Still, Sansa sometimes wondered if perhaps she had jumped into the engagement too soon. They had only been dating a year when the question was asked, and how could she have said no? The proposal had taken place in a highly publicized fashion, and at the time she had been deliriously happy. They'd made love for the first time— _her_ first time—that night.

And it had all been downhill from there. Slowly yet steadily, his flaws began to creep up on her.

 _Everyone has flaws,_ she reminded herself. _I'm not perfect myself._ It was the cold feet, she was sure of it. Joffrey was everything she ever wanted. Successful, handsome, educated...and yet…

"I mean it," he said, looking as though he smelt something foul. "I want no other men rubbing up against my bride-to-be the week before our wedding."

"She _knows_ , Joff," Sansa repeated with a sigh. She would remind him that he kissed other women in front of cameras, with never a peep from her, but that was not a fight worth re-hashing just now. She went to him, brushed the hair from his eyes, hoping instead to defuse him. "Don't worry yourself over what Mya is planning, my love; it's you I'm marrying." She kissed him, and for a glorious moment, the doubts were whisked away, replaced by passion.

Ten minutes later, however, they were lying naked on the floor, and the passion had long passed. Sansa chewed her lip as she gazed off into nothingness, her head lying against his heaving chest.

"That was incredible," Joff panted, fingers tangled in her hair.

"Mmhmm," Sansa hummed, although 'incredible' seemed to be a bit of a hyperbole. She never quite understood what was so great about sex. Everyone talked about it as though it were the best thing since sliced bread, yet in her experience, it was nothing like on TV. _Something must be wrong with me,_ she thought. She had read about such cases before, of women who took no pleasure from sex. She supposed that must be the case. It wasn't _unpleasant,_ of course, but neither was it particularly _enjoyable_. She preferred make out sessions on the couch much more than the pump-and-slump sessions that Joffrey seemed so fond of. She'd gotten into the habit of faking orgasms; she hadn't known to fake it their first time, and he had spent the next week making remarks about it, as though she'd done it on purpose. Faking it was easier than the guilt of bruising his ego.

 _Sex isn't everything,_ she scolded herself, for the thousandth time. _But I wish it was_ something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Sorry about the longish wait guys! I planned to get this up much sooner, but things are busy in IRL-land, and I ended up going out of town for the weekend before I could get around to it. Enjoy~!

* * *

 **SANDOR 3: WAGER**

Sandor would look back on this decision and regret it the next day, but as one drink turned into several, and several turned into many, all sense went out the window. Sandor's shift had long ended, and it was nearing midnight when Boss found them.

Jaime discreetly slid the shot he'd just poured for himself over to Sandor as the man laid a heavy hand down on the bar. "What're you still doing here, Clegane?" He asked brusquely, his blue eyes sharp. _A warpath indeed,_ Sandor thought wryly. He seemed to be on the lookout for a reason to blow up on someone.

"I promised Annabelle I'd escort her home tonight," he lied easily, shrugging. He slid Jaime's extraneous shot over and raised his own in cheers. "Thought I'd take a load off 'til then."

Boss gladly took the offered drink, clinking it against his before downing it. "Good man," he said baldly, grudgingly as his temper began to wane. "And you, Lannister. Have you given any thought to what we discussed earlier?"

Jaime's mouth tightened, but only for a moment. "Sorry, Boss," he said, gesturing to his person. "Dancing's not my métier; I just pour drinks."

"So?" Boss snapped. "Nobody gives a shit if you can actually _dance,_ so long as you've got a cock to swing around. It's all just smoke and mirrors anyway; the music does most of the work, and we keep it so fucking dark in here for a reason."

A snort escaped Sandor, and he quickly tried to mask it with a cough. Jaime shot him a glare.

And then his lips curled up into a smirk. "Surely I'm not the only one who could fill the role?" he wondered, tilting his head. "Haven't you asked anyone else?"

Boss gave a frustrated sigh. "Who else is there to ask? You're the only bloke here who seems to give a shit about what he eats." Jaime's smirk widened.

 _Don't do it, you fuck,_ Sandor was saying with his eyes as he glowered up at the blond bastard. _Don't you dare._ That only seemed to amuse him more.

"Clegane is sitting _right here,_ Boss; do you really want to hurt his feelings? Look at him; he clearly works much harder than I do."

Boss seemed to be seeing him for the first time. "God, you're hideous," he said bluntly. For once, Sandor was glad to be so.

"But…" Boss stroked his wiry beard thoughtfully as he looked him over more thoroughly. _No,_ he thought. _No buts._

"But as you said," Jaime supplied. "It's quite dark."

"Not dark enough," Sandor flared. "I'm not fucking doing it, either." He had the urge to reach over the bar and strangle the life from the traitorous little scab, and it took all the restraint he had to keep his arse in the seat. _He wanted this,_ Sandor realized. _He wanted me here when Boss came 'round again._

"You're fitter," Jaime pointed out, as though that settled the matter. "There's no denying it."

"And you're prettier," Sandor snapped.

"You're surely braver," Jaime insisted.

"And you're surely a better dancer," he countered, putting a mocking pinky out. "Even if it's not your _métier_ , or whatever pompous shit you just said."

Boss slammed a fist down on the bar, suddenly angry. "If I have to listen to one more second of this oafish bickering, I'm going to go apeshit." Sandor and Jaime exchanged a glance. By the look of him, it was a promise not worth testing. "We need a third, and one of you is it. One of you is filling in tomorrow night, or both of you are, goddamnit."

Sandor opened his mouth immediately in protest, but didn't get the first syllable out before Boss was shouting over him. "Shut up!" he roared, giving the bar his fist again. Somewhat shocked and indignant, Sandor clenched his teeth, mouth twitching as Boss went on, voice lower and more menacing. "Fill my stage or fill out applications. You hear me? You're _replaceable._ Think about that before you show your faces here again." He stalked off in a fury, leaving the pair of them at a loss.

"He can't do that," Sandor declared, once he found his voice again. He had half a mind to chase the man down and tell him as much. Too outraged to move, however–and perhaps too drunk as well–he rounded on Jaime instead. "What the fuck was that?" He asked in a seething undertone, snatching him by the collar and pulling him down. "Dragging me into it...I should drag you 'round back and beat the life out of you for this."

Jaime had recovered his shit-eating grin from before. "Ah, but then you'd be left with no choice but to dance in my stead, wouldn't you?"

Sandor chewed his cheek irritably as he glared at the man in front of him, giving him a good long look. Was that fear in his eyes, or a flicker of revulsion? He'd never seen Jaime express either, so it was difficult to be sure. Grudgingly, Sandor released his hold. "Good point," he growled. "I'll kill you after."

Jaime laughed as he returned to his full height, straightening out wrinkles in his shirt that weren't there. "Well, you heard the man. It's one or both of us, isn't it?"

"Thanks to you."

"You're welcome," Jaime bowed his head. "It _is_ quite unfair...we could sue him perhaps, there are surely laws against this sort of thing...but why the bother? Legal battles are so _messy_ and drawn out."

 _And expensive,_ Sandor thought grudgingly. "He asked you first, before you dragged my arse into it. You should do it."

"But you'd make the more pleasing candidate," Jaime gestured to him. "Besides the face, of course. Luckily for you, the ladies don't come here to ogle faces, do they?"

"Enough with this horse shit," Sandor sneered. "You've got a needle dick, is that it? That's what all this is about?"

"Not so much," Jaime replied, with the casual shrug of a man who had never felt such insecurities in his life. Sandor recognized that shrug. "But I do have my reasons, besides the obvious ones." The man poured him another drink, as nonchalantly as if he weren't the most hated person in Sandor's life right now. "What do you say we settle this like gentlemen, yeah?"

 _We're discussing which of us will be waving their pieces about, while surrounded by women waving theirs._ "We're well past _gentlemanly_ solutions, don't you think?"

"One is never past such things," Jaime poured a drink for himself, now that Boss was out of sight. He drank, setting the shot glass down on the bar with a hard _clack_. "I propose a wager. Loser has to go full Monty tomorrow, winner gets to laugh–– _and_ choose the stage name."

"This ought to be good," Sandor raised his own glass and drank. _Clack._ He would later reflect on this drink as the one that was perhaps one too many. "Let's hear this _wager_ , then."

Jaime smirked. "We're both clever men," he said smoothly. "So what I wager is this: a round of Simon Says, with a twist."

Sandor raised his eyebrow. "A children's game is your gentlemanly solution?"

"With a _twist_ , I said," Jaime corrected him. "I perform an action, you must repeat the action. And then _you_ perform an action, and I must repeat it. We alternate until one of us fails to properly repeat, and is deemed the loser."

As fuzzy as his head felt, Sandor sensed trickery. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," Jaime said blithely as he poured two more shots. "You can even go first, if you'd like. It's a battle of the wits, don't you see? I can't exactly challenge you to an arm wrestle, and so this is my solution. If you have a better one…?" He looked at him expectantly.

His mind was blank; he had no other ideas. Maybe Jaime _was_ trying to trick him, but Sandor fancied himself cleverer stuff than some spoiled child of a man. "All right, then," He held out a hand to shake on it. "You're on."

Jaime took his hand gladly, and they shook. "May the cleverer man win, guard dog."

"Let's see if there's anything besides hot air in that head o'yours, pretty boy," he returned. They both drank.

Sandor was first, so he fished around in his pocket and dug out a coin. _This will be over quick._ He was excellent at Quarters, and with ease he bounced the coin off the table and landed it in the glass. The corners of Jaime's mouth turned down, impressed.

"Go ahead," Sandor sneered, sliding the coin his way. "Sink one."

Jaime wordlessly swiped it off the table, took aim, and loosed. To Sandor's utter dismay, it tinkled merrily as it landed squarely inside the glass.

"Lucky shot," he murmured. "Go on, then. Your turn."

Something about the way he smiled was unsettling. Sandor realized what was missing, but by then it was too late. _He always grins with his teeth, but now he isn't. He always has a cocky remark, but now he doesn't._

Jaime raised his glass–brought it to his lips, and without breaking eye contact–he spat out a mouthful of liquor into it. Sandor's jaw dropped in time with his stomach. _He never swallowed his drink._ There was no way for Sandor to repeat the action without vomiting it up; he had a feeling that wouldn't count, or he might have tried.

"You fucking little troll," he snarled, getting abruptly to his feet. Jaime took a cautious step back, although he was hooting with laughter.

"Now, now," he said, putting his hands up. "I could have just as easily lost, you know. I even let you go first; it's your fault you chose to test a _bartender_ at Quarters, mate."

"I'm not your fucking _mate,"_ Sandor seethed, disgusted with the man, disgusted with himself. He yanked his jacket off the back of his seat, jabbing a finger in his face. "I'll owe you one, you wanker."

Jaime put a hand to his stomach, for how hard he was laughing. "Before you do that," he gasped, "I'd suggest you go home and practice some moves in the mirror, _Hot Dog."_

* * *

 **SANSA 3: PLANS**

Before she knew it, Sansa was rifling through her closet, brow knitted thoughtfully. _Something sexy, that I don't mind having ruined. What kind of suggestion is that?_

Joff was preparing as well, for their respective last hurrahs were planned in tandem. His best man hadn't been so secretive as Mya, so he already knew what to expect. They would be spending tonight at the casino, and the rest of the weekend would be spent at his grandfather's hunting lodge, although Sansa doubted there would be much hunting going on.

She finally decided on a slim green dress that ended just above the knee, and threw on a pair of high, beige heels. She wasn't sure if Mya's plans encompassed the whole weekend as Joffrey's did, but she packed an overnight bag just in case.

Once her hair and makeup were done, she took a moment to scrutinize herself in the mirror. _I suppose I don't mind if this gets ruined,_ she thought as she turned this way and that. She hadn't worn this dress in years, not since university; its low back and neckline made it a touch too inappropriate for most formal gatherings. _But it_ is _sexy,_ she thought with satisfaction.

Joffrey thought so too, but he was much less pleased about it. "You're not going out in _that,_ are you?" He asked incredulously. "You're dressed like a call girl, not my bride."

"I won't be your bride for another week," she reminded him coolly, offended by the remark. "Could you keep your head on? I'll be surrounded by the girls, celebrating my upcoming nuptials with _you;_ I'm not out on the prowl."

"In that outfit, I could scarcely tell the difference," He remarked.

Mya's timing couldn't have been better. There was a knock at the door then, and Sansa went to answer it eagerly.

"Ooh," her friend made a dramatic show of looking her up and down when she saw her. _That_ was the response she had hoped for. "You do look ravishing, future Mrs. Lannister! Now let me in so I can pack you a bag real fast; the girls are waiting in the car."

Sansa looked over her shoulder to see a stretch limousine waiting on the curb, Myranda waving to her from the open sunroof. She laughed, waving back.

Mya was pleased to learn a bag had already been packed, and all she added to it was a swimsuit before dragging her off. Myranda, Arya, and Jeyne were all waiting for her in the limo, glasses of champagne already in-hand.

She quickly found herself red in the face as her friends wasted no time in garbing her from head to heel in penis-shaped novelties, which included a tiara, sash, and necklace. They all gave a shout of, "To Sansa!" Before clinking their glasses together, and everyone gathered in for a round of group photos.

"So, there is only one cardinal rule for tonight's festivities," Mya spoke up, putting an arm around her shoulders. "What happens at the bachelorette party, _stays_ at the bachelorette party. Take all the photos you like, but only Joffrey-approved imagery can be posted online, all right?"

There were sounds of assent from all around. Arya rolled her eyes. "Which basically means no one can post anything, you mean."

Everyone laughed. "He did seem to be more stuck in the mud than usual," Mya agreed. "It's killing him, wondering what we're up to, isn't it?"

Sansa nodded. "It's driving him _mad._ Which is, of course, what you wanted?"

Mya grinned. "Of course."

"So what _are_ we getting into tonight?" She asked, looking around at the group of them. It surprised her to see that even Arya was showing some leg tonight. _She should do it more often, she looks nice._

" _Sin,"_ Mya said ominously. "If all goes well, tonight will only be remembered in photos. The rest of the weekend will be spent in recovery, I promise. So _don't hold back,_ " She jostled her playfully.

"So," Sansa said casually. "Strippers, then?"

" _Strippers,_ " Mya agreed, grinning a wicked grin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** **T** eehee...one more update until I am REALLY blushing. It will also be the longest of the updates, with 3 chapters instead of 2. That felt like the best place to do 3 chapters in a row. ;)

Also, this is a good time to listen to "Burn Slow" by the Dirty Heads, as that's the song I chose for Sandy. :P

* * *

 **SANDOR 4: NERVES**

 _This can't be happening,_ Sandor thought miserably, gripping the sides of the sink and staring at himself in the mirror. _I don't have to go through with this._ So what if he had made a bet, and lost fair and square? So what if ducking out would make him look like a yellow belly? _So what_ if Boss fired him, and he had to struggle through unemployment for awhile? _I could just quit right now, and figure the rest out later._

He wouldn't, however. He already knew that. It was humiliating enough to be outsmarted by that spoiled little shit Lannister, but to bitch out in the eleventh hour would only make it worse. _It can't be so bad,_ he tried to tell himself. _I see the girls do it all the time._

To be sure, he was hideous to look upon, but Boss had had a point before: _no one cares about the face, that's not what they're there to see._ The rest of him was far more appealing, he was at least confident about that much. He'd entertained the idea of wearing a mask, but had thought the better of it. He could just _hear_ the Phantom of the Opera jokes now. _And maybe if the guests can see my face they will complain, and I'll be asked off the stage as soon as I was tricked onto it._

Each dancer would be introduced one-by-one, each having the opportunity to dance solo before spending the rest of the night alternating stage-time and floor-time between them. That first dance was the part Sandor was most anxious about; all eyes would be on him, and he would be going _last_. He didn't feel prepared. _Of fucking course I'm not prepared, because I'm not a fucking stripper._

His only comfort was that photography was not permitted within the club. _And that I have no reputation to besmirch even if it was._ He had to keep reminding himself of those things in a vain attempt to calm his nerves. He was going on the stage tonight no matter what; _may as well give it laldy, and maybe I can come out of it with some dignity to spare._

Once he was dressed, all there was to do was wait. He went outside and proceeded to chain-smoke, wondering how many he could get in before he had to face the music.

"There you are, guard dog," Jaime said enthusiastically when he found him, stepping outside to the setting sun. "Are you ready for your big debut?"

"Fuck off, Lannister," He replied roughly, not bothering to look at him.

"I must say," he went on as though his presence weren't unwanted. "I can't believe you're actually going through with this. I thought you would have backed out by now; I certainly would have."

 _That's because you don't have anything to lose,_ Sandor thought bitterly. "We can't all be cowards."

Jaime gave a wry laugh. "A cowardly lion I might be," he said. "But all the same, I came to bring you some courage."

He held a flask out in front, and Sandor snatched it up grudgingly, still not looking at him. He took a long pull from it. "You're still on my shit list."

"I can live with that," he replied, smug as ever.

Sandor turned to him then, towered over him. "I hope you get a good giggle in tonight, Lannister. Because you mark me; I'll have the last one."

* * *

 **SANSA 4: DANCE**

It had grown dark outside by the time the limo pulled up to its final destination, the sidewalk awash in bright blue neon light. _The Blue Moon_ , read the sign, a crescent shaped logo with the silhouette of a woman's body in front.

The day had been spent bouncing from bar to bar, and Sansa had been showered in free drinks at every one. _I don't think I've ever been this drunk in my life,_ she thought giddily. Her vision swam dreamily, as though viewing the world from underwater.

Over the course of the day she had ridden a mechanical bull, taken a shot off of a man's stomach, belted it out at karaoke, danced herself sore on several bartops, and—if all that hadn't been scandalous enough—had even smoked a joint with a homeless person. Any time Mya found an opportunity for her to sin, she pulled at Sansa's arm until she gave in and agreed. By the time they'd reached the fourth bar, however, she hadn't needed the extra convincing.

As promised, tonight had been the most fun she'd had in a _long_ time—perhaps ever. A part of her felt horribly guilty, knowing how Joff would react if he were a fly on the wall, but she decided she would put off dwelling on it until the weekend was over. She had been a good girl all her life, even at university. Why couldn't she have just _one_ night where all bets were off? Just this once, to let her wild side out? To even see if she _had_ a wild side? _God knows I won't have this opportunity once I'm wed._

It had all been building up to this, she reflected as the door swung open to let her party out; the fruit that Joffrey had so clearly deemed forbidden. Sansa's stomach fluttered in a mixture of excitement and dread. She had never been to a place like this, didn't know what to expect. _And if Joff ever finds out…_

"Come on!" Mya took her hand and pulled her out of the car. Her maid of honor had been dutifully by her side all night, even when the other girls were off dancing or flirting. Arya had been close as well, and Sansa thought she even saw her begin to have fun after she'd had enough to drink. Now, however, her sister was looking up at the flashing neon sign with a morose expression on her face. The only thing that had convinced her to take part in this at all was the knowledge that Joffrey was against it.

She seemed to be regretting it now, however. Sansa took her sister's hand and smiled encouragingly. "I'm glad you're here, Arya," she said clumsily, swaying slightly in her heels. It was a wonder that she hadn't broken an ankle yet. "I know you don't like Joff, but that's okay. I don't even know if I like him much either."

" _What?"_

There was no time to reply as they were ushered into the club, and soon the comment was forgotten. It was extremely loud inside, the music pounding in her ears and rumbling in her chest. There was a dancer already on the stage, dark skinned and hairless, covered in oil and fully nude. If she weren't already flush with drink, she would be flushing now.

"Oh, there's Jaime!" Mya shouted, pointing at the bar. "Drinks!"

Sansa balked. " _Jaime?"_ As in _Lannister?_ As in Joffrey's own uncle?

"It's all right," Mya said as reassuringly as she could manage with all the shouting. "I talked to him in advance, he won't say anything to Joff!"

"Are you sure?" Sansa yelled back, hesitant.

"Trust me!" Mya insisted, pulling her onward. They reached the bar, and Jaime smiled amiably at the group of them.

"Please don't tell Joff!" Sansa blurted at once. He laughed.

"I love my nephew with all my heart," he replied. "But I never saw you here, promise." _Why am I seeing_ you _here?_ She wanted to ask. The promise relaxed her somewhat, although she didn't know the man well enough to trust him. Mya seemed to, however. Sansa didn't know how her friend knew Jaime, but that was another question for later. Her eyes were distracted by the glistening man on stage.

Once the drinks were poured, they found a place to sit on the left side of the stage, right on the tip rail. The view from this vantage point was far different than from across the room, and she suddenly found herself overwhelmed with embarrassment as the performer took notice of her; with all her bridal gear, she was practically wearing a neon sign that screamed, ' _Notice me!'_

She cupped her hands over her eyes when the oily man got down on his hands and knees before her, making a clawing motion like some kind of indecent animal. She could hear the shrieks of laughter on either side as her friends urged the dancer on with singles, and soon her hands were being pried away by Mya and Myranda, each holding one down at her sides.

The dancer was grinning impishly at her as he rose on his knees, giving Sansa an eye-level view of his penis. He was so close that it nearly touched her as he swiveled his hips in front, and her eyes were wide as plates as she watched, red-faced and unable to look away.

 _Good lord, it's huge,_ she thought, overwhelmed by the sight. The only manhood she'd ever been this close to belonged to her fiancé. _Is Joffrey really small, or is this man just abnormally large?_ Was this the reason he was so very against strippers?

The man got back to his feet and finished his dance, giving some girls on the other side of the stage his attention before the song ended and he was making his exit.

Taking advantage of the brief quiet, she turned to Mya, who was already looking at her.

"So?" She asked. "What did you think?"

Sansa drew a breath. "I didn't know they made them that big," she confessed. Mya raised her eyebrows.

"Sansa, that was a _normal_ sized cock. How big is Joff's, then?"

The other girls were listening too, and suddenly Sansa felt embarrassed again, feeling naive as she always did when it came to matters such as this. Were her head not buzzing away so merrily, she wouldn't have even dignified that with an answer; she didn't like to kiss and tell. There was never anything _worth_ telling, after all; not in comparison to the tales her friends usually told. Even Arya had racier stories than she could boast.

Sansa was feeling excessively honest in her state, however, and so she squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head as she put up a hand, turning her fingers down one-by-one until only her pinky was left standing.

There were gasps and giggles from all around. "No _way!"_ Myranda shouted, sounding scandalized. Sansa opened her eyes again, grimacing as she nodded.

"Oh, darling," Myranda tutted. "You poor thing."

"I knew it," Arya scowled. "He's a big baby, it's only fitting that he has a baby's dick."

" _Arya!"_ Sansa gasped, although the laugh in her reprimand betrayed her.

The music picked up again, and everyone fidgeted excitedly in their seats, ready for the next dancer to come out. "Tonight's more of a treat for you than I thought!" Mya shouted next to her ear.

The previous song had been an electronic dance number, as one would expect at a place like this, but now it was something more subdued, although the bass of it still pounded in her chest. An unseen announcer spoke over it.

"Ladies, please welcome to the stage… _The Smouldering Member!"_

 _Are you supposed to clap?_ Sansa looked around to see how everyone else was reacting. Everyone was cheering, some were applauding, others had their hands cupped to their mouths and whooping. Mya had her hands over her head and was cheering over the music. By the time she decided on putting her hands together to clap them, the performer was walking out, and she found herself frozen mid-action. If the other man were tall and broad and muscular, what did that make _this_ man?

He was _gigantic._ Two of her could easily stand abreast before him and still have room on either side. Although the stage gave him extra height, she could tell he easily had a head over her, probably more. He was dressed in black baggy pants and a leather jacket. His face was mostly obscured by a pair of aviators and black, shoulder-length hair that swept down over the left half, but she could make out a strong jaw and hooked nose.

He reached the edge of the stage, tore off his jacket, tossed it down front. The girls seated there shrieked excitedly, showing their approval by tossing money his way. He was wearing a sleeveless top, skin-tight and white, exposing arms that were as massive as the rest of him. He raised them over his head and began to move. Cheers erupted from all sides, but Sansa found herself speechless and unable to express any sort of opinion. She didn't have one; the only thing she could focus on was the lump that formed in his trousers with every forward thrust. Disappearing and reappearing, she found herself mesmerized by the sheer size of it. All of him was in proportion, it seemed.

"Take it off, ya wanker!" Mya called from beside her, and Sansa was horrified to look over and see her friend waving bills in one hand, and pointing at _her_ with the other.

More horrifying still: he noticed. Sansa's eyes snapped up to his face, his lips splitting into a smirk that revealed canine teeth so prominent that he looked half a beast under the blacklight. He lowered his arms, took hold of the shirt, and ripped. It tore away as easily as if it were made of paper, exposing a hard, broad torso. He was neither oiled nor hairless, as the man before him had been. Indeed, he did not seem to fit the stereotype she had formed in her head of what a male stripper should look like. _Well, perhaps he fits a few of them._ He was muscled all over, as if cut from marble. With every twist and turn she saw every line of him, but the lines she was most drawn to were the ones in his hips, so deep they cast dark shadows there, plunging down beneath his waistline. She tried to move her eyes back up to his face, but they were pulled back down by the line of hair that grew thickest beneath his navel, and she found herself _wanting_ to see where that line ended.

She blinked, snapping out of her stupor when she felt paper being forced into her hand. "He's coming over," Mya said into her ear. "Put that in his britches."

Her face burned as he drew near, clutching the bills hard in her hand. Watching was more her fancy; actively participating was quite another matter. Jeyne was easily the shyest of the group of them, but Sansa came in a very close second.

He was directly in front of her now, rolling his body in front of her. Sansa had to get on her feet to do as Mya instructed. Mortified and thrilled all at once, she quickly reached out and tucked the bills into the waistband and sat back down, as though trying to do it before anyone saw her. Her fingers had only grazed against his skin for a second, but they were tingling with the sensation of it. She wanted to disappear, for even behind the sunglasses she could feel his eyes on her.

The man seemed to sense her discomfort, and it seemed to amuse him a great deal. He gestured for her to rise once more, bringing both hands out in front and beckoning her forth. His hips were still rocking in time with the music, the lump still indecently rocking with them.

 _I can see ya through the flames of your lighter_

 _I can see you with the lights down low_

 _I can feel it when I'm standing beside ya_

 _Got the feeling that you want to burn slow_

She bit her lip, feeling too weak in the knees to stand. _Tonight is your night to be wild, remember? What are you so afraid of?_ Indeed, her friends would surely tease her more for her modesty than for her audacity.

Filled with a new resolve, Sansa finished off her drink, set it down heavily, and got to her feet. When she did, he lowered himself to her eye level, hands on his knees and peering at her over the top of his shades. As much as her vision swam, his face was in sharp relief now, the expression on it as corrupt as it was fierce. Although his hair was splayed over it, it wasn't thick enough to hide the fact that the flesh underneath was twisted in burn scars. Even the skin around that eye was burned.

Some instinct possessed her to reach up, to brush the hair away. Just before her fingers made contact, however, he jerked himself upright again, and in that one swift motion he had torn the trousers away. Everything went black. For a wild moment, Sansa thought the power had gone out. There was whooping and cheering erupting from all around her, and it was then that she realized what had happened.

It was Myranda who tugged the discarded clothing from over her head, almost doubled over from laughing. Movement caught her eye, and she let out a sharp gasp to see he was still standing over her, but this time he was fully nude, and it wasn't a lump that bounced before her, but a fully exposed, monstrously long––Sansa cupped her hands over her mouth in shock, but there was no averting her eyes, not even if she tried.

The reality of it was even more than she had imagined, and although it shocked, it did not disappoint. She could see the final destination of the hip lines she had liked so much, the place where his hair grew the thickest. She felt an ache that she didn't often feel in her abdomen, and it occurred to her that she was _aroused_ by this _._ Sansa was still inexplicably on her feet, and she felt more singles being pushed into her hand.

"Don't be a cheap bitch!" Shouted Mya with a laugh.

Sansa didn't see a place to deposit the money this time. _What do I do?_ She thought in a panic. She hesitantly brought a hand up, holding it aloft for him to take.

He did take it. The dancer sunk to his knees in front of her and, for the space of an eyeblink, Sansa thought he meant to bite her. She flinched as he brought his face forward and took the bills in his teeth; she thought she heard him laugh a rumbling laugh at her expense over the noise of the music.

And then he spun around, got to his feet, and made his way over to the other side of the stage. Sansa took her seat again, bemused.

Mya leaned in close. "In case you were wondering," she said. " _That_ is what a _big_ cock looks like."

It was an understatement.

Too soon, the song was over, and the performer was gathering up his jacket and exiting the stage. The announcer came back on to remind them to buy some drinks, and that the first dancer they had missed would take the stage again soon.

Myranda was fanning herself dramatically. "I don't even care about his face, I'd let him wave that at me all day!"

Sansa found that she agreed, somehow. She felt more curious about it than disgusted. _I wonder how it happened._ In any case, there was nothing she could complain about with the rest of him. _He's tall, strong, hairy, endowed..._ she blushed at the thought. _He's everything Joff is not._ She blinked, shook her head. _My word, am I seriously comparing my husband-to-be to a stripper?!_

It was unfair, she told herself. How could she expect him to stack up against someone who was _professionally_ attractive? _There are more important things._

The girls were all looking at her. "You should have seen your face," Myranda said, tossing her the tear away trousers, laughing at the abashed look that gave her. "Oh my God, I wish I could have taken a photo!"

"I think all our eyes were ready to pop out of our heads," Jeyne spoke up, giggling. "Arya looked as though she'd never seen a man before, didn't you horse face?"

"Shut up," Arya snapped, although she didn't deny it.

"Oh, _that's_ the one," Mya said. Jaime came over then, bearing a tray with new drinks for the five of them.

"On the house, ladies," he said with a smile. "Are you enjoying yourselves?"

"Very much," Sansa heard herself say as she took one of the glasses. The whole thing had been hideously embarrassing so far, but it had also been exciting and splendidly wicked, and she was enjoying herself _thoroughly._

"We need a round of shots, too, I think," Mya told him, leaning back in her seat so as to be heard better. "If my girl is going to be on her own, she'll need some extra courage."

Sansa's face contorted in confusion. "What is that supposed to mean? Where are you going?"

"Me? I'm staying here." She grinned. "You, on the other hand, are getting the VIP treatment."

Jaime's smile faltered, but only for a moment. Sansa was still confused. "What does _that_ entail?" She asked, looking between them.

Mya wagged a finger. "No spoilers, darling. Now, if that massive piece of ass would make his massive way back out here..." She craned her head up, looking around. The only one walking the floor was the dark skinned man from earlier.

"I'll fetch those shots," Jaime said, walking off.

Sansa sipped at her drink as a new dancer came out, this one was blonde and bronze and slim. Perhaps if Joffrey were a stripper, this would be him; it surprised her, then, that looking at this one didn't do much for her. He was a better dancer, it seemed, but that absurd feeling of arousal didn't return. How could any act follow what she had just witnessed, after all? She drank a little deeper.

If this day had been the best of her life, this night was easily the most confusing. _And eye-opening._


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Prepare yourselves: it's a three-fer! And it's the first smut I've ever written, perhaps the only smut I'll ever write. Please be gentle! xD

* * *

 **SANDOR 5: RULES**

 _Well, that wasn't half so bad as I imagined it would be,_ Sandor thought as he pulled a fresh shirt over his head. _And I made some extra cash while I was at it._

He knew he would have to go back out, for the night was still young, but performers were entitled to breaks between routines. It surprised him that he didn't mind the idea of it all that much. _The patrons are just spiders; they're more afraid of you than you are of them._ Except spiders didn't shower you in money for taking your clothes off, of course. To be sure, the flask of tequila he had downed before going out had helpzed a great deal, although he'd never tell Jaime that.

He shrugged into his jacket and began digging around for his cigarettes when he heard a familiar voice from behind. "You're a shit dancer, mate."

Was it worth correcting him this time? He decided not. "Didn't seem to matter," He remarked, drawing himself up and turning to face him. "That was a cute name you picked out, by the way." He'd made sure to pick a song that was equally as tongue-in-cheek, just so Jaime knew how little it had gotten to him.

For once, the man didn't seem to have a retort prepared. "Listen…" He began, looking somewhat hesitant. Sandor raised an eyebrow as he spread his hands. "You're going to be requested for the VIP room."

"No fucking way," Sandor said at once, recoiling at the mere idea of it. The VIP room was a private room that patrons could rent out with one or more dancers for a more... _intimate_ experience. The limits of the VIP room were only set by the amount one was willing to pay, and the discretion of the dancers. Since there were no cameras, there truly was no telling what went on back there, but Sandor pitied the cleaning staff nonetheless. Dancing on a stage was one thing; having to perform one-on-one without any outside distractions was quite another. "You can't make me go back there."

Jaime gave him a sympathetic look. " _Boss_ will make you. Believe it or not, I like it as little as you do."

"Did your heart suddenly grow two sizes?" He asked contemptuously.

"It's not the _what_ I do not care for, it's the _whom,"_ Jaime said, exasperated. "That's my nephew's fianceé out there, you know."

That took Sandor by surprise. "The redhead, the one covered in bachelorette bullshit?" The one that he had tried to scare and embarrass? The one who had seen his face, and for whatever reason, had reached out for it rather than shrink away?

He sighed. "That's the one. That's why I didn't want to do this, you see. Well, aside from the obvious reasons...but I knew she'd be here tonight. How much of a disaster would it be, to see one of your future in-laws naked the week before your wedding? I don't think she even knew I work here."

"Well, this changes things," Sandor replied in a serious tone.

"I know," Jaime said, falling for it. "What are you going to do?"

At that, Sandor's lips twisted into a devilish grin. Jaime frowned.

"She's a good girl, Clegane," he said sternly.

"Is she?" He asked with exaggerated interest. "We'll see what I can do about that."

Jaime had a face like a smacked arse. "That isn't funny," he said in a tone of warning. "Don't get any ideas."

"This was all _your_ idea, remember?" He sneered. "Seemed pretty fucking funny then, didn't it?"

"You got me," Jaime said, throwing his hands up. "You win."

Sandor shook his head, tutted at him. "Remember when I said I'd have the last laugh? Do you see me laughing just now?" He turned his face this way and that, gave him a good look at it. "I meant to just break your nose once all this was over and be done with it. But this…" His grin widened, relishing the frown that grew deeper by the second. "I think this will make us square, _mate."_

He snatched the Aviators off a dressing table and fixed them on his nose. The absence of a left ear made them a difficult item to wear, but he suspected he wouldn't be wearing them long. This was better than nicotine. This was _revenge_ , handed to him on a silver platter. The redhead would surely never tell the in-laws about this experience, and Sandor wholly intended to let Jaime think the worst. _He'll never be able to go to a family gathering again without thinking of me violating his nephew's wife,_ he mused. Sandor would only have to be humiliated for one night; Jaime's kind of torment would last much longer. Perhaps even a lifetime, if he was lucky.

It also didn't hurt that the burd was easy on the eyes.

He walked out onto the floor, scanned around for her. It was one of her friends that he spied first, for she had stood and started for him the moment she saw him. He halted and waited for her to come over, noticed how she looked him over. _Maybe I'm in the wrong profession,_ he thought derisively. No one ever gave the bouncer a second glance, not if they could help it.

"My friend over there is getting married next week," She began, throwing her head back slightly in her direction.

"Couldn't tell," Sandor said wryly.

She laughed, cut to the chase. "How much for the VIP treatment?"

He crossed his arms. "That depends on how much time, and how much contact you have in mind."

She seemed pleased by that. "How far will 400 quid go?"

 _How the fuck should I know?_ He wanted to say. He'd never bargained over his body before; he certainly didn't think it was worth that much. Truth be told, he would have had the same answer no matter what number she had thrown out there:

"Far."

She handed it over. "If she doesn't come out of there looking scandalized, I'm going to demand a refund."

 _Shouldn't be difficult,_ he thought as he pocketed the bills in his jacket. _She looked as though she'd never even seen a man naked before._

He made a beeline for her then, her back to him as she watched one of her bridesmaids receive a lapdance from a bloke named Jack, better known as _The Jackhammer_. She flinched when he laid a hand down at the nape of her neck, gripping her lightly there and beckoning her up. It was easy to be confident and in control when others expected you to be; she turned and saw who was standing there, and her eyes grew wide.

"What is this?" She asked, looking around. The girl he'd just spoken with came around from behind.

"Go on, darling," She encouraged. " _The Smouldering Member_ is going to take good care of you for awhile."

"You don't have to call me that," He murmured as the girl got shakily to her feet. _She's tall,_ he noted with satisfaction. _Probably even without the heels._ Her legs went on for days, and there was less than a head's height between them; a rarity when it came to women. He could tell by the way she stumbled that she was completely bladdered, as was fitting for such an outing. Without giving it much thought, he bent and scooped the girl up in his arms. She squeaked, wrapped her arms around his neck. "You're coming with me," he told her gruffly.

Her clucking hens made a show of cheering her on and bidding her dramatic farewells as Sandor turned and carried her off, the burd in his arms looking up at him shamelessly. He glanced back down at her. His first instinct would be to make a rude remark about her staring, but he reminded himself that he was being paid to be stared at. He found that he didn't mind the staring much besides. Her gaze wasn't one of disgust, but of interest.

When they reached the room, he locked the door behind them and set her down on the round cushioned seat in the middle. The lights were already dimmed and music was already playing. All the walls were lined with cushioned seating for large parties, segmented by endtables topped with ashtrays. Two poles stood on opposite sides of the room. The wall opposite the door was a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and in the corner there was a stereo topped with a bucket of ice, two bottles of champagne sunk inside. He wondered if Jaime had put them there. He hoped it was Jaime, the prick. _I hope he's going mad over this._

Sandor wasn't quite sure what to do now; he had no plan, and he wasn't particularly popular with women to start with. _One step at a time._ He plucked one of the bottles out of the bucket. The girl was watching his every move, waiting for a cue.

"Take that shit off," He commanded, holding a flute out to her. She gaped at him.

"Pardon?"

"That bachelorette shit. It looks ridiculous. Take it off." He popped the bottle open and filled her glass. She was staring at him like he had two heads.

"Aren't you the one who's supposed to be taking things off?"

He laughed. "Ah, she's cheeky; I like it." He threw his head back and drank straight from the bottle in great long pulls, not caring if she thought it crude.

"I've got three rules," he told her baldly, setting the bottle down and holding up three fingers. "The first rule is, no tacky shit. This is a classy room, you are a classy burd. Take it off."

She looked about to defy him, but then she huffed and did as he asked, discarding the items on the floor beside her.

"Good girl," he sneered. She looked a lot prettier already. "The second rule is, there's no being shy; not in here, not to me." To his mind, shyness was a waste of time. _She's not the one who needs feel embarrassed, either._

"How can I not be shy?" She asked, incredulous.

"You don't seem very shy now," He pointed out. "And there's no need for you to be, either." He bent down to her height and took her face in-hand, turned it towards the mirror. "That's all there is, you and I. No friends, no family…" He narrowed his eyes at her over the rim of his sunglasses. "no _fiancé…"_

She snapped her eyes around at him, and he met her gaze, raising an eyebrow and smirking. He lowered his eyes, took her hand. "That's a mighty big rock," He gave an impressed nod. "Do you know what they say about mighty big rocks?"

The girl shook her head slowly. He laughed again. _Innocent as a lamb, this one._ He stood, maintaining his hold on her hand. "A mighty big rock, they say, to make up for a mighty small _cock_." He placed it over his groin, and she gave a sharp gasp, snatching the hand away and looking appalled. He let it go, hooting and reclaiming the champagne bottle once more. "We'll work on that second rule," he snorted.

"So what's the third rule?" She asked after a long moment, once he put the bottle back down. He approached her again.

"The third rule is, you can ask anything you want of me," He walked around behind her, tracing a path around her neck.

"That doesn't sound like a rule."

"I wasn't finished." Sandor took hold of her shoulders, brought his lips close to her ear. "You can ask anything you want of me. _But you have to ask._ "

She shivered; turned her head, ever so slightly. "Anything?"

"Aye," he confirmed. "Anything you ask." _Because I sure as fuck don't know what to do with you._ Sandor was satisfied with this solution. He was a fish out of water, and not a very creative one; leaving the ideas up to the guest would spare him further potential embarrassment, or otherwise facing a lawsuit.

He backed away from her and began rolling his body to the music, waiting for her first command. She turned to face him on the round cushion, large enough for her to put her feet up. She did so, propping herself up with one hand and sipping champagne from the other. It was a glorious sight; the color of her dress complemented her hair nicely, and it clung to every curve. Sandor had to remind himself that _he_ was the one who would be taking his clothes off. _All she has to do is watch. A pity, and a waste._

"Take off those sunglasses," she said tentatively, as though to test him. But it was an easy request, and so he slid them down off his eyes and held them loosely at his side. The room grew a little brighter, but it was quite dim to start.

"Give them to me?" She sat up straight and held out her free hand expectantly. He gave her a curious look, but he nonetheless obeyed, stepping forward and holding them out for her.

She put them on, looked over at herself in the mirror. And then she burst out laughing. "Oh, I am keeping these," she declared, taking another drink and turning back to him.

"Lose the jacket," she said next, with more confidence this time. Sandor obliged, making a show of it. One arm at a time, he slid out of the leather, slowly and what he hoped was seductively. He let it fall to the floor. She nodded her approval.

"The shirt," she commanded. "Take that off, too."

He was sick of this game already; it lacked imagination. "Are we playing Simon Says?" He asked brusquely. _Must run in the bloody family._

"I don't know _what_ I'm doing," she said with a drunken laugh, sipping from her glass. _That makes two of us._

He stepped closer. "Why don't _you_ take it off?" She hesitated, and he could tell she had averted her eyes.

"What's the second rule?" He reminded her, putting a finger under her chin. She pondered that to herself for a moment. Then, as though swallowing her reservations, the girl looked up at him, set her jaw, and emptied her glass.

He grinned. _That's right,_ he thought with amusement. _Let that courage-soaked liver have its fun._

She rose up on her knees, looked in his eyes over the top of his sunglasses as she slid cool fingers underneath the fabric. His stomach tightened involuntarily as she drew her hands up, lifting the shirt as high as she could reach. It was only when Sandor reached behind his head and pulled it the rest of the way off that she lowered her gaze, her hands lingering on his chest.

Then, slowly, she moved them down over his ribs, his stomach, tracing the lines in his hips with delicate fingers; it seemed to put her in a trance. He tilted his head as he watched her rove over him, admiring her curiosity.

"Thinking about your groom-to-be?" He asked, more to stifle his own arousal than hers.

She snapped her eyes up, startling him somewhat. "You're nothing like him," she said sharply. He raised an eyebrow, not sure how he should take that. On the one hand, she was marrying him, so she must like the bloke well enough. Yet on the other hand, he was a Lannister, so he was surely nothing worthy of emulation. _Probably a prick like his prick uncle._

"Take these off," She demanded suddenly, pulling at his waistline. He was taken aback by the audacity, but quickly recovered his composure. He didn't want her shy, but she surely didn't want him submissive either. Sandor pulled her roughly to her feet, walked into her. She turned, walked backward as he advanced, until her back came up against the overlarge mirror on the other side of the room.

"How about you try asking nicely?" he asked in a low voice, putting a hand to her throat. He didn't apply pressure, but under his thumb he could feel how her heart raced.

She lifted her chin in defiance. "You're breaking your own rules." Her hands were now on him again, braced against chest as she leaned up and brought her lips to his ear. "Tearaway pants," she whispered, her breath like a warm breeze against his skin. "Are _tacky_."

He laughed under his breath; _she's got a point there_. "That's a bold little burd," he told her. "It's sexy on you."

 _Too_ sexy, perhaps. He wasn't used to being touched like this, _looked_ at like this. Sandor was fighting an erection with every fibre of his being. He wasn't keen on taking his trousers off just yet for that reason, and yet he had a feeling the reveal would make her modest again, which might prove helpful.

After a brief moment of deliberation, Sandor did as she asked, taking a step back and tearing the pants away with ease. Her eyes were muffled behind the sunglasses, but he could see where they had traveled. He approached her again, her back still to the mirror as he bent his head down to her ear.

"Would you like to dance?" He asked in a low voice. He didn't give her time to respond, taking her hands and pulling her to him. Sandor began to move against her, arms draped over her shoulders.

She moved with him, but only for a short time. "I saw you dance already," she protested. Her hands found his cheeks, never flinching as she pulled the hair out of his eyes.

"What would you ask of me, then?" Sandor kept his tone suggestive, although he now felt more naked than ever.

"Tell me what happened," she whispered. "To your face."

The erection he was fighting suddenly died, both to Sandor's relief and his disdain. He pulled away from her, nonplussed. "Now why the fuck would you want to know that?"

"You said I could ask anything," she reminded him. "Tell me."

He hadn't meant for _anything_ to be taken so literally, nor did he fancy the idea of telling such a tale to a drunken stranger; one he was standing in front of without any clothes on, pretending to be a stripper. _My life is a fucking mess right now,_ he thought dryly to himself, in a moment of clarity. _When all this is over, I need to sort it out._

"You have the opportunity to ask me _anything,_ " He growled, taking her by her upper arms. "And you ask me for _stories?"_ Her breathing hitched as he all but threw her down on the round cushion in the middle of the room. He brought himself forward and straddled her there, lowering himself over her.

"Do I have that right, little burd?"

Her chest was heaving as she looked up at him, red tendrils splayed out about her. "You don't have to tell me," she said, regaining her insolence. "Not if you're too _shy."_

Sandor's face darkened, mouth twitching. He couldn't tell if he was being flirted with or mocked, but he liked it not at all.

"I didn't peg you for a masochist," He said harshly. "But all right, then. I'll tell you, if that's how you want to pass the time."

He could tell her any number of lies, of course; he had recited many of them throughout the years. House fires, camping trips gone awry...he had even told someone he'd done it to himself once, under the claim that he did not feel pain. Before he could settle on any of them, however, he heard himself blurting out the truth.

"I was just a lad; seven, maybe eight. Already I fancied myself a fighter, though." He took her wrists, pinned her down. "Boxing. I watched every match, standing in front of the telly, copying what I saw. One night," he brought his face closer to hers, speaking in the tones of a secret. In all honesty, it _was._ "Well, I am many things, but as you've surely observed by now, _lucky_ is not one of them. My _brother_ happened to be walking by. A few years older, and much larger than I am, if you can believe that." He could see by the look on her face that she could not. His mouth twitched again. "But what he has in size he lacks in temper. He was walking by, I wasn't paying attention; I hit him square in the nose. First and only time I ever struck my dear brother; needless to say, he didn't take it well."

She gasped. "He didn't; not over that, surely?"

He laughed, a cruel and hollow laugh. "You come from one of those storybook families, don't you? I can practically smell it on you." Sandor breathed deep, his lips curled up in half a snarl. "He's done worse over less. We had a small fire goin' in the hearth. I hit him, and faster than you could spit, he had me by the hair and was shoving me down into it. The louder I screamed, the harder he laughed."

"That's awful," she breathed, voice thick with pity.

 _Great,_ he thought. _Now I'm not only a stripper, but I'm a stripper with a hurl story._ Perhaps he was drunk too, drunker than he thought.

"The world is awful," he growled, gripping her wrists more tightly. "But you already know that, don't you? That's why you're here, and that's why you can't look away."

"I'm here because I'm getting _married_ ," she said defensively.

"No, little burd, that's why you were out _there,"_ he corrected her. "You're _here_ because your friends know something perhaps even you do not." His face was now so close that his lips were grazing hers when he spoke. She smelled of hard liquor and pretty flowers, and nothing had ever smelled so sweet. "I know your type. You're a _good_ little burd, aren't you? So eager to please, yet none have ever returned the favor."

He rocked his hips into hers, making her shudder under him. Nonetheless, her mouth tightened and she turned her head away, unwilling to confirm or deny. _She knows my shame, now I know hers._ He grinned, thrust into her again, less vindictively this time. Her bottom lip disappeared behind her teeth, and she wriggled ever so slightly in response. It was all the encouragement he needed.

"You're not here to hear stories," he went on. "You're not here to be fucking _good._ Aren't you tired of being good?" He was moving more rhythmically against her now. He felt himself growing stiff, and so did she; he heard her let out an almost inaudible whimper. "Wouldn't you rather _feel_ good?"

"Yes," she gasped, as though breaking the surface of water. "God, yes."

"Oh, there's no _God_ here, I assure you," he said into her lips. "But all you have to do is ask."

Blue eyes peered up at him from the bottom of the sunglasses, which had been knocked askew when he'd shoved her down. Glassy and bloodshot, they were also bright with lust.

"Ruin it," she said through clenched teeth, rolling her body under him. "Ruin my dress, ruin _me."_

His lips split into a grin. "Now _that's_ more like it."

 _What are you doing?_ Said a voice in his head. _You only wanted to make it_ seem _like you got this far, not to actually go it._ But that voice was small, and drowned out by the blood that was quickly flowing out of his head, down to the other.

 _She wants me,_ noted a much louder voice. _And fuck all else, I want her too_.

* * *

 **SANSA 5: CONTRAST**

Had she really just said that? Had she really just asked what she thought she asked? Was this truly something that was going to happen?

All signs indicated that, _yes,_ it most certainly was. _You are a journalist,_ she reminded herself, not for the first time. It gave her courage, to remember times when she'd had cause to feel much more nervous than this. _You've interviewed the Pope, you've had tea with the Queen, you've publicly criticized the Prime Minister. This is just a stripper, and this is a private space, and I can do anything I want._

He released his hold on her and sat upright, giving her a full view of him once more. If she had had any doubts, they went flying out the window at the sight. She had thought him large before, but now he was standing at full attention, and she felt her stomach flip over. _I can do anything I want, and no one will ever know._ How many times in her very public life would she ever be able to say so again?

He reclaimed a wrist and placed it brazenly over his shaft, guiding her up and down it for a few slow strokes before letting go. It was rock hard and velvet smooth all at once, and her hand barely wrapped all the way around it; she maintained the grip and continued to slide her fist back and forth, the guttural groan that escaped him giving her confidence.

His eyes slid closed. "Good...girl…" He murmured, thrusting in time with her. Sansa propped herself up on an elbow, watching him intently as she worked him in her hand, how he seemed to melt under her touch. His hands found her thighs, running electric fingers down the length of them.

Sansa had never felt so turned on in her life, before he had invited her to touch him. She had never felt more powerful than when she'd forced him to follow his own rules, had never felt more thrilled to be so _very_ vulgar as she was being right now. She didn't know what had come over her, but she found herself incapable of questioning it. She let her senses take full control, letting her mind get lost in the drunken, licentious fog.

His hands roved over her until they found her hips, and he gripped them hard. "Your turn," he rumbled, sliding her roughly upwards from between his legs, looming over her once more.

Sansa's mind was reeling, but she didn't have time to apply sense to circumstance as he slid the hand between her thighs, pushed her panties aside; she was so wet with wanting that when he plunged a finger into her, it was met with no resistance. The effect was overwhelming and instantaneous; with just one finger, she felt a sensation Joffrey had never given her with the full length of his erections. She clapped her hands to her mouth to stifle the shriek that rose up her throat, and she heard him laugh as he pried them away.

"No one will hear but me," he rasped. "And I do want to hear."

He drove the finger into her again, and she didn't hold back this time as the moans escaped her, raw and shameless. Sansa took a desperate grip on his hair, pulling at it as her spine arched up, as though trying to fuse itself with his. She could barely hear the music over the sound of his ragged breathing in her ears.

"So tight," he murmured. "But I'll fix that." She felt a second digit enter her this time, and she clenched her teeth through the initial shock of it. He slowed his pacing until she adjusted, sweeping her hair back with his free hand; but then he was drilling her again without mercy, and she was crying out without heed.

Whenever Joffrey did this, he simply slid in and out, his finger straight and his knuckles hammering into her pelvis. She was usually sore by the time she pulled his arm away, pretending to have peaked. But _this_ man...she shuddered as he twisted the fingers inside her, curving them in a beckoning motion; occasionally he found a place inside that nearly made her weep with pleasure when he pressed it. His rhythm was steady and sure, and oddly gentle for a man his size. Joff's fingernails always cut her, but his were short. His fingers were longer, broader; they were also more delicate, however, and stronger too. She could feel rough callouses that came from years of hard use as the hand that wasn't occupied between her legs gingerly stroked her cheek.

He then slid the pad of his thumb in between her folds, directly on the place that was usually too sensitive to touch. She made a guttural sound, her nerves ignited with the sudden stimulation coming at her from both inside and out. He barely grazed it rather than apply pressure, as Joff usually did; it amazed her that it could feel so wonderful, rather than make her twitch and squirm in discomfort.

"Yes," was all she could manage between heavy breaths. She swallowed. "Oh, yes…"

"I'm gonna cum just listening to you, girl," he growled into her ear, grazing it with his teeth. "And I haven't even tasted you yet."

Sansa opened her eyes, looked at him. "Tasted?" Did he mean to kiss her?

"Unbelievable," he chuffed, pulling himself up and out of her. She felt absurdly disappointed by the sudden deprivation.

"This wanker you're marrying," he said brusquely. "He never licks your cunt?"

Sansa flushed. "Sometimes," she said, embarrassed at the disclosure, even in her state of courage. "But he doesn't like it." _Neither do I._ She lowered her eyes. "He...it's gross."

"Wanker," he repeated. "I doubt that very much."

And with that, he lowered himself down onto the floor and pulled her to him, sliding her knickers down the length of her legs. He took a moment to admire them, lacy and pink. "Oh, I'm keeping these," he declared with a smirk. He discarded them and ducked between her legs, and the last thing she saw before pleasure resumed control of her were his eyes, bright and indecent.

This was better than before, better than she would have believed. He plunged his fingers inside her again, but it was his tongue that sent her over the edge. He worked it in long laps, alternating with short bursts of pressure on her sensitive head. Sansa was digging her fingers into her own hair now, unable to stifle her shouts of pleasure even if she had wanted to. How did her face feel nothing, yet her nethers felt _everything_? She felt an aching, throbbing sensation there, and something else she could not describe. She felt as though she could spontaneously combust at any moment, for how hot and tingly she felt all over. Her entire body shuddered, rigid with some unknown anticipation. Every time he changed course, it brought a new wave washing over her, each more intense than the last.

 _I'm going to die,_ she thought. _I'm going to die in this back room at this strip club, and I'm going to die crying out to a man whose name I don't even know._

Although she had been building up for so long, the final wave seemed to crash over her all at once. White and hot and electrifying, it was as though she were being struck by lightning. Sansa grabbed for him, desperate for something to hold onto, feeling as though she would fall off the face of the Earth if she did not hang on.

More waves came after that, and Sansa was so tightly bowed up that she was sure she pulled a muscle in her leg. She didn't pay it any mind, though; the pain was secondary to the blinding ecstasy that surged through her. In that moment, she couldn't think, could hardly breathe. In that moment, the world didn't exist.

And then everything was calm, and still. The music suddenly came back on, the room was restored to its former dimness. Her skin buzzed with a quiet energy as he rose, eclipsing her as he leaned over her, reached for something overhead. When he pulled back, she saw he had the bottle of champagne again. He found her glass and filled it.

She laughed, took the bottle instead. Sansa drank deeply from it before falling back again, staring up at the ceiling dreamily. "I don't think I've ever felt anything like that before," she said languidly, putting a hand to her forehead.

He made a choking sound. " _Ever?"_

She thought she had, before now. At least once or twice. She'd never had anything to compare it to, however, and now the truth was plain enough. "I suppose not," She admitted, propping up to drink again. _Is that how it feels for everyone?_ "I thought I was...incapable."

He drained the glass he'd poured and laughed. "You thought wrong, little burd."

Sansa reached out, slid a hand along his thigh. "So wrong," she agreed softly, tracing the lines of his hips. Already she could feel arousal stirring within her again. _I could sip champagne from these,_ she thought.

"You can, if you'd like," he laughed. Sansa snapped her eyes up. _Did I really just say that aloud?_

She must have. He rolled over onto his back, hands behind his head. Sansa looked between him and the bottle in her hand. _Why not? I'm already past the point of no return._

She lowered the sunglasses from her eyes, drew herself up so that she was kneeling between his legs. He was watching her with a shameless intensity, his teeth almost bared with how he grinned at her. Sansa raised the bottle, and slowly, tentatively, she tipped it over him. His stomach tightened as champagne trickled over it, pooling and bubbling in the deep grooves made by muscle.

"Oops," she said with a feigned innocence. Both of them laughed. Sansa bent low over him, put her lips to his skin, and drank. He groaned, stiffening by the contact.

"You're not good at all, are you?" He murmured as she made her way to his navel, to the other hip. "You're just a wild animal who's never been out of her cage."

 _Am I?_ She thought, reflecting on all the times she'd laid with Joffrey. Never had her bedroom behavior been so... _fun._ What made this so different? _Alcohol helps, to be sure._ But it was more than that. Sansa not only felt uninhibited, she felt _encouraged_ to be so. She doubted this sort of brashness would ever be deemed acceptable by her fiancé; _he'd be worried about the mess. He'd certainly be feeling emasculated._

That's what thrilled her best, she realized. _Aside from the obvious reasons._ There was no emasculating this man, so there was no need to tiptoe around his ego. It was his job to be confident, of course, but it doused his allure not at all. _If Joffrey's face was burned like that, he would never leave the house again, let alone let me touch it._

Sansa lifted her eyes, meeting his as he watched her. "You haven't seen my wild side," she said, not recognizing herself. She sunk her teeth into his flesh, eliciting a rumbling groan from deep within.

"Would you like to?" She trailed a hand down his stomach, until it found his shaft. It tightened in her hand.

"Show me yours," he clenched his teeth. "I'll show you mine."

Sansa licked champagne from him until none was left, until she had found herself face to face with his manhood. She licked that too, drawing her tongue up the length of it. He let out a throaty sound, bringing his hands out from behind his head, pulling her hair back in one massive fist. She smiled, looked in his eyes, and opened wide.

He threw his head back, his grip on her hair tightening as she slid her mouth over as much of him as she could take, her hand holding the rest in place.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, his free hand squeezing her shoulder. "Fuck, that's good…"

All she could taste was champagne, all she could hear were his raw encouragements, guiding her by the scalp to set the pace he wanted. Sansa moaned into him every now and then, which always made him moan in response. This man was far more straining on her jaw and throat than Joffrey had ever been capable of, but he made up for it with his vocal enthusiasm, letting her know what felt good and when to do something different. _Joff always just lies there,_ she thought bitterly.

It was when Sansa began to quicken her pace that he abruptly pulled her head away, breathing heavily.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, unable to hide the concern in her voice.

He pulled her roughly to him as he sat upright, hands tight around her waist. "There's plenty wrong about what we're doing," he said with a low laugh. "But you keep going, and I won't be able to, if you catch my meaning."

The creeping insecurity vanished at once. "Oh," she smiled. "So you've seen enough, then?"

"Not nearly," he growled, pulling her to her feet with him as he rose. He drew her close, heat emanating from him in waves.

"You wanted me to ruin this, aye?" He asked, a hand sliding up the back of her dress. She let out a sharp gasp as he took a firm hold and ripped, the zipper pulling apart easily with the sound of tearing fabric. He grinned. "I'm not nearly finished with you yet."

Passion reignited in her like a match struck near gasoline. The dress fell away and pooled at her ankles, leaving her completely nude. She heard him make a rumbling sound of approval, his hands sliding over her exposed hips and waist. Sansa stepped out of the dress, bent to remove her shoes.

He jerked her back up in an instant. "Leave them on," he commanded. "You won't be on your feet long."

He had his fingers in her hair as he tugged her head back, dragging his teeth from her chest to her ear. "You're not a virgin, are you?" He asked in a low voice. "Even I have my limits."

"No," she managed to say, although she felt speechless with the reality of what was about to happen.

"Good."

And then she was off her feet as promised, supported by arms so strong that she felt completely weightless.

Sansa grasped his shoulders and buried her face in his hair, smelling of plain soap and cigarettes, and something else that could only be _his_ smell, in the way everyone has their own unique scent. It was intoxicating.

And then her back met something hard and cold, and in the mirror she could see he had her pinned against a stripper pole. Sansa instinctively reached up overhead, gripped it tightly with both hands. It gave him a full view of her heaving chest.

He drank in the sight, his eyes roving over her as though he didn't do this all the time. "Ravishing," he murmured, bringing his face down and covering a nipple with his mouth. Her eyes slid closed as she let out a low moan, and he nipped and sucked at each one in turn. The fire in her belly was so hot it _ached_ by the time he shifted her weight into one arm and took hold of himself, bringing it to her entrance and sliding it up and down between her legs. She bit into her lip to stifle the whimper that caught in her throat.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" He asked raggedly into her chest.

She nodded, bowing into him slightly.

"Say it," he snarled, bringing his head up and pressing his forehead into hers. His eyes were gleaming salaciously, his lips parted as he breathed heavy, rasping breaths into her. She felt dizzy by the heat of him, and driven to what could only be insanity by the way he teased her entrance with every pass.

He wanted her to beg, she knew. She was not above such things just now. Sansa released her hold on the pole, took his face in her hands and pressed him harder to her. Her voice had that deep-throated ferocity to it that she didn't recognize when she heard herself say the words. "Fuck me. Fuck me right _now._ "

He didn't need telling twice. She threw her head back and made a guttural, feral sound as he guided himself inside; slowly at first. He was moaning too, although she barely heard it over the blood rushing in her ears. It was painful and incredible all at once, and soon his entire length was sheathed inside. Time seemed suspended as she was, and for that timeless moment, Sansa felt _whole._

He swiveled his hips then, and Sansa brought her head forward again and sunk her teeth into his shoulder to douse the shout it elicited. He groaned, gripping her so tight she felt she might pop.

"Fucking hell," he gasped. It seemed to be all he could say just then. "Fucking hell."

He had her in both arms now as he slid slowly out and in, establishing a steady pace and watching her intently. Sansa winced with every thrust at first, the girth of him being more than she could handle. It was only a matter of time before she adjusted, however, and the pain dissolved into pleasure. That seemed to be what he waited for, for the moment her wincing turned to moaning again, he quickened his pace, each thrust punctuated with a grunt that rumbled in his chest as well as hers.

She had been unable to stop comparing him to her previous experiences before, but this was beyond comparison. Sansa became blissfully ignorant of the world; she even forgot where she was, who she had come here with. She didn't even know this man's name, but if you asked her just then, she wouldn't have been able to tell you her fiancé's name, either; she had forgotten she even had one.

* * *

 **SANDOR 6: BEASTS**

If someone had told Sandor this time yesterday that he would be glad he lost his wager with Jaime, he probably would have punched them. At present, however, he hadn't been gladder about anything in his life. Not once had she recoiled when his face came too near; indeed, she was currently pressing her cheek against the offending flesh, yet the only sounds she made were ones of desire, not disgust.

 _There's an animal inside her_ , he thought as he thrusted into her, felt her constrict around him with every one. _Wild and shameless, and I let it loose._ Her nails were raking into his back, but pain and pleasure were all the same to him. She bit into his neck like the beast she was, and he returned the favor on her chest, for he was a beast as well. She gritted her teeth, bit him harder.

Sandor's legs began to feel weak as he felt himself approaching climax once again. He would have to keep moving if he didn't want to burst too soon, he knew. He kept himself inside her as he pulled away from the pole, lowered them both in a seat against the wall instead.

She was in his lap now, and he had a proper look at her for the first time. _Beautiful,_ he thought at once, her long red curls tumbling down over her breasts, big enough to fill a palm with. _And so fucking sexy._ He put his hands on her hips and guided her, for she didn't seem to know what to do at first. He set the pace, slow but rhythmic, rolling her hips in his hands. She threw her head back and took her hair in her fists, seeming to retreat into her own little world as she began to move more on her own accord. Sighs and moans punctuated her rapid breaths, her forehead dotted with sweat.

Sandor let his hands rove up the length of her body, so soft and pale, dappled with freckles all over. He wished he would have the chance to count them, to kiss each and every one. _Get a grip,_ he reminded himself. _You see naked women every day._ In truth, he thought he'd grown desensitized to such things by now. Yet, as he watched her move, it was as though he'd never seen a woman in his life. It was beyond comparison; beyond comprehension, that such a creature could stand to be so near.

He reached a hand between her legs and found her head, rubbing it gingerly as she ground into him. It took her by surprise, her eyes snapping open as she looked down at him.

"Do you like that, beastie?" He asked huskily, supporting her back with his free hand.

She made a deep sound in her throat before throwing her head back again. "Don't stop," she whimpered, putting her hands on his shoulders for added leverage as she increased her speed and elevation on him. It felt so fucking good, coordination became difficult to maintain; he could feel her legs begin to tremble, although from exertion or fulfillment he could not say. Nonetheless, he took her in his arms and flipped her over onto her back, burying himself in her deeper than before.

He thought he was hurting her at first, but her lips were turned up instead of down, and her legs hooked themselves around his waist. This was the angle that pleased her best, if her cries were any indicator. She drove her fingers in the hair of his chest, right over his pounding heart.

Sandor plunged into her faster, and harder too. He struck a special nerve with every thrust, and she was now _begging_ him not to stop in between labored breaths. _As if I could._ He was lost in a vortex of growls and ragged breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and champagne. She was close, he knew, and so was he.

And then she was howling, so tight all over that he felt almost fused to her. She was raking her nails into him again, down his arms and across his back, anywhere she could reach. Her sounds were beautiful; feminine and feral all at once. Sandor's eyes rolled back as he felt himself beginning to lose control, now that it was safe to.

"I'm going to cum," he gasped.

"Yes," she urged him, burying her face in his chest, biting him there savagely. He soon felt her melting beneath him; she was coming down. He drew himself out so that he could finish outside of her, but she gripped his arse and forced him back inside.

"IUD," she panted. "Don't stop."

It didn't take long after that. Sandor laced his fingers through hers, pinning her down. Her eyes were wide and warm, looking up at him as though she didn't see a ruin there. And then it was like a bomb going off. He let out an unbridled roar of release as he exploded inside her, gripping her hands hard and temporarily blinded by the sheer rapture of it, desperate for it to be over while simultaneously wishing it would never end. Sandor felt both vulnerable and powerful inside her, and before he could suss out how that was possible, it was over. He was shaking all over when the world came back into focus, and the world was wonderful, for it was smiling up at him and glowing with sweat.

Sandor withdrew himself from her, shifting around so that her head rested upon his chest. He felt tired, but comfortably so. He could not say how long they laid there, panting as though they'd just run a marathon; time seemed suspended entirely. He absentmindedly stroked her hair, his other hand covering hers where it rested upon his chest.

"That…" She finally said once she had her breath again, her voice hoarse and drowsy. "Was incredible."

He turned his eyes down, stared at her. _You're incredible,_ he wanted to say. But that was not his role, he knew. He did not like the light he was seeing her in now, not one bit.

"You're a proper woman now," he settled on saying instead, forcing a low laugh to his throat.

"I wasn't dreadful, was I?" She turned her face up to look at him. "Be honest. Not stripper-honest."

Sandor's laugh was more genuine this time. "Not that you should give a whit one way or the other," he replied. "But you were pure dead brilliant, beastie."

She smiled. His mouth twitched as he brushed over her ring finger, singling it out. _Lucky bloke,_ he thought to himself. _Though surely she is not_. He got abruptly to his feet then, retrieved the second bottle of champagne from the bucket of half-melted ice.

She sat up and watched him as he uncorked it, handed it to her without bothering with glasses this time. She drank as he reassembled his trousers and pulled them on.

"So is that it, then?" She asked tentatively.

Sandor felt inexplicably irritable. He snatched his shirt up off the floor, tossed it over to her. "You can stay and clean up as long as you need," he told her. "Use that. Do you smoke?"

"No," she answered, clutching the shirt to her chest in chagrin. He retrieved the jacket, found the pocket with cigarettes in it. He kept his back to her long enough so that she could clean herself off in peace.

He lit one and offered it to her. "Tonight, you do," he said. "It's tradition, after all."

She took it sheepishly and gave it a try. Instantly she was sent into a coughing fit, and he laughed as he reclaimed it from her, smoking it for himself.

"It's a shit habit anyway," he shrugged. She rose now too, pulled her dress back on. The back hung open where he had broken the zipper.

"Come here," he said, softening when he noticed her helpless expression. Cigarette between his teeth, he took the jacket off and swung it over her shoulders.

"Keep that, if you like," he told her, straightening out the collar. He fixed the sunglasses over her eyes as well, grinned at how far left of herself she looked. The jacket could have fit two of her inside, but it would look better than if she walked back out there without it.

"Thank you," she said gratefully, looking herself over in the mirror behind him. She burst out laughing at the sight. "My word, I look like rubbish!"

"Nah," he said quietly, running his fingers through her hair one last time. She leaned into his palm, almost feline. "You're gorgeous, beastie."

She put a hand to his face, leaned forward, and kissed his ruined cheek. He blinked as she pulled away.

"Run off back to your friends, now," he commanded. "Before they think I've murdered you."


End file.
